


She Calls Herself Lisa

by Vicki Hessel Werkley (HowNovel)



Category: Starman (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1988-05-08
Updated: 1988-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNovel/pseuds/Vicki%20Hessel%20Werkley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A writer tries to befriend a sad, lonely painter in the artist community of Mendocino, California.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Calls Herself Lisa

She Calls Herself Lisa  
By Vicki Hessel Werkley  
May 1988

She fascinates me. As a writer I suppose I'm easily captivated by people's faces and personalities, but some intrigue me more than others. She calls herself Lisa Jordan, but I don't think that's really her name. It seems to have a newness in her own mouth when she speaks it, and when I say the name, there's an extra moment of response time, as if she has to remember those syllables refer to her. No matter. Many people come here to Mendocino to heal and change their lives -- and sometimes a change of name is part of that.

I know she's not some dangerous criminal. Sure she could be hiding out from the government. Let's face it, the government would make criminals of many of us. But I have a sixth sense about the good in people, and I don't find a scrap of anything else in her. Oh, there's fear and pain and yearning. And a kind of self-protective deception, but there's certainly no "bad" in her.

She's an artist. There are lots of those around here too. I see them all over town with their sketchbooks or easels, their folding stools and different levels of commitment. But she's out there every day. She paints with such intensity -- as if her life or sanity depended on it. And she's good. Very good. She paints what they all paint, what she sees here: gingerbready Victorian homes, the redwoods and wild-flowered headlands, the moods of the sea, weathered fences inundated by tides of nasturtiums. But I find that odd. There's something about her that speaks to me of deserts -- red sandstone monuments and wide skies. I can't explain it.

In a lot of ways she's like a shy deer, and it took a long time before she began to trust me even a little. I often walk the headlands when I'm struggling with writer's block; there's something about being near the Pacific that balances the tides within me – physical, emotional, inspirational. Perhaps she finds that too, for I frequently see her walking or painting there.

At first we only smiled at each other and nodded, then we spoke, and soon we'd stop for short exchanges about the weather and the underfoot ecology. She was very nervous at first, but she relaxed a bit after I mentioned my husband several times and she became convinced I wasn't trying to pick her up. That I was just another of the friendly local characters, a woman of an age to be an older sister.

Then one day -- an exceptionally chilly December day she surprised me by accepting an invitation. "Brrr!" I said. "That's enough 'outdoors' for me today. I'm going to find a warm cafe and thaw out with some hot coffee and pie. Wanta come along?"

She'd hesitated a moment, regarded me with blue eyes still showing traces of recent tears, and then said, "Yes. OK."

There's always such a lot of sadness in her -- though I sense beyond it wisdom and a great love that has yet to be fulfilled. Or maybe that's all just romantic writerly nonsense. But anyway, that day she seemed especially sad; she needed someone to talk to. Always before she'd gently deflected any questions about herself or her past. But I do have a way of drawing people out when they're ready, and as she sat there warming, stirring her coffee, she confided that it was her son's sixteenth birthday and she wished that she could be with him.

When I expressed a natural interest in the boy and his father, she said quickly, "We're separated right now, but when the time is right, we'll all be together at last." Then she suddenly remembered she had an appointment elsewhere and rushed away. Didn't even finish her pie.

And then there was that night out on the headlands. I couldn't sleep; I couldn't write; I needed to walk with the sea air in my lungs. There was a full moon riding high. Plenty of light to follow the trails safely. I nearly ran into her there, alone on the cliffs, looking up at the stars and weeping. I couldn't withdraw discreetly; she'd seen me.

We stared at each other a long moment. Her pain and yearning washed over me in waves and I ached for her. I stepped closer and put my arms around her and held her as she cried. She felt so fragile to me -- both physically and emotionally - and yet I knew there was a great strength beneath all that. Like I said, she fascinates me.

Neither of us said a word that night and we have never spoken of it since.

There's a story in her; I can _feel_ it. Something big...REALLY big. Perhaps she'll share it with me one day. Perhaps we'll come to be friends. Or perhaps she'll just disappear from Mendocino and I'll never learn anything more of her.

But for now, all I know is; she's an artist, she calls herself Lisa, and she loves Dutch apple pie.

THE END


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